If there's anything worse than a bunch of women sitting around talking about their ailments, it's men sitting around discussing theirs. I know because I just spent a week doing exactly that with a dear friend, who has what is typically referred to as "a cold."

The conversation, which was conducted through a series of long-distance emails and phone calls, took illness to an art form. It began on Saturday when the first urgent call came through.

He: "Not to sound alarming, but I'm not well."

Me: "Really?" (Registering immediate concern.) "What's wrong?"

He: "Where should I begin? My throat is scratchy, and that's not all. I'm coughing."

Me: "Coughing too? Sounds ominous."

He: "And let's not forget the nasal congestion."

Me: "Never. Nasal congestion is nothing to sneeze at. Sounds like the common cold."

And that's when the conversation took a nosedive, and came to an abrupt halt for about two minutes during which time I heard heavy breathing, some wheezing, followed by a sneeze that could be felt all the way from California to Connecticut.

He: "There's nothing common about my affliction. Let me assure you, this isn't a cold. It's something much worse -- something with complications. And my throat is raspy. Can't you hear how raspy it is? By all rights, I shouldn't even be talking."

Me: "Good idea. Let's not talk. Drink plenty of fluids, and check with me in the morning."

The next day, an email arrived. "I can't speak, so I'm writing. If I slept an hour last night, it's a lot. My vocal cords have gone into complete shutdown. It could be a rare disease, but I wanted you to know I'm still here."

On Monday, he called again. "If I slept 20 minutes, that would be an exaggeration."

Allow me to digress: This man -- my wonderful friend -- is a doctor, which adds a touch of frivolity to the entire scenario. He's the same person who considers any displays of attention-seeking neurotic overindulgences.

Me: "How's it going?" I dared to ask when he called on Tuesday.

He: "If you saw me now, you wouldn't believe it. I'm not myself. I look wan, not to mention I'm exhausted. I've gone through two boxes of Kleenex. If I slept 10 minutes, it would be amazing."

Me: "Are you pushing the fluids, and eating chicken soup?"

He: "There's no one here to cook for me. And anyway, chicken soup is a tale from the old wives. We in the medical profession don't consider chicken soup a viable option."

Me: "It's been proven that chicken soup has healing components. If I were there, I'd make you some. My chicken soup works miracles."